


no rest in the kingdom

by brophigenia



Series: k does the dreampack [4]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Anal Sex, Breathplay, Car Sex, Choking, Joseph Kavinsky is His Own Warning, M/M, Murderous Fantasies, Public Sex, Recreational Drug Use, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, but with gay sex, discussion of how kavinsky wants to die, discussions of Prokopenko's death, forgery!prokopenko, it's like that, you know how like spongebob created doodlebob?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-21 00:39:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15545781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brophigenia/pseuds/brophigenia
Summary: My favorite forgery is Prokopenko,he’ll lie later, conspiratorial with blood in his teeth. He has no favorite forgery. It’s all fucking empty. Pills to make him forget, pills to make him sleep, pills to make him die. Cars to race, cars to burn, cars to crash. Ghosts to keep him warm, ghosts to keep him cold, ghosts to remind him of his own failings. There is nothing but this. Not anymore.[Prokopenko is a forgery. K has feelings. They have sex.]





	no rest in the kingdom

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all, if you think Kavinsky was the way he was for no reason at all then just leave now. Sixteen year old boys don't become sadistic/psychotic druglords for no reason lmao. Come at me.

If things were different, K would  _ be with _ Ilya Prokopenko. 

If things were different then he’d put his name on Prokopenko’s skin and hold his fucking hand in public and shit would be fucking  _ good.  _ There would be less  _ everything.  _ There would be Prokopenko, who had also been  _ Ilya,  _ had also been _ Ilyusha.  _

There would be  _ Ilya Prokopenko,  _ who had once been  _ alive.  _

Now there was Proko, who was a poor man’s copy of the boy that had once made K feel like there was fire in his gut just to  _ look _ at him. 

Proko, who K had dragged from his dreams because he couldn’t function in a world where he had to face Ilya’s absence every single day. Where he had to remember that Ilya was  _ rotting,  _ becoming nothing. Nothing, when he’d been K’s  _ everything.  _

Proko, who could be reset with a few sweet kisses, no matter what K did to him. No matter how hard he hit him or how roughly he fucked him, no matter how many drugs he poured down his throat. 

Proko, who could never and would never be  _ Ilya,  _ who took the blame for that off of K’s shoulders. 

Proko who resembled Ilya the way a reproduction resembled a Rembrandt, who K should’ve never created. 

But he did, and so there he was, and sometimes he could pretend. Sometimes he could press Proko up against a wall and cradle his skull and kiss him lush and  _ slow,  _ touching him with gentle hands. The way he’d touched Ilya, the very first time and every time after. Ilya, whose bright eyes and sharp shoulderblades had made him  _ incandescent,  _ a wild thing of a boy that K wanted to  _ keep.  _ Ilya, who called him  _ Joey _ and made him  _ human.  _ He’d been fully  _ human  _ when Ilya was alive, not the young wrathful god he’d been reborn as. 

Other times it was  _ this,  _ bending Proko over the hood of the Evo and going at him viciously, teeth in the back of his neck and hips full of  _ thunder,  _ wanting nothing but to tear apart this  _ imposter,  _ this  _ thing  _ he’d made. Clenching his hand tight in Proko’s hair and making him cry, and even  _ that  _ was wrong too, because he didn’t cry  _ right,  _ he cried like he was doing it because he knew that was what K wanted, eyes colorless and an edge of amusement in the desperate gape of his mouth. 

The others watched from the shadows and he knew they saw it too, knew they  _ knew  _ what he’d done. They knew that Proko wasn’t  _ right,  _ and they knew that K was  _ wrong,  _ so it wasn’t exactly a hard connection to make.  

“Dreamthing,” he snarled, wrapping his hand around Proko’s neck so he could squeeze it tight. 

“Me or you?” Proko gasped in a ragged laugh, and brought his hands up to cover K’s, squeezing down. 

(Ilya’s eyes had been green, as bright as chips of jade in his face. Proko’s were as blankly gray as the sky before a winter storm.) 

He should kill Proko. He should get  _ rid  _ of him. 

He  _ couldn’t. _ He  _ couldn’t.  _ He  _ couldn’t.  _

_ (Joey!  _ Ilya had cried, so fucking  _ scared,  _ and it had been K’s fault for bringing him home in the first place, his fault for kissing him in the hallway where anyone could fucking see, his fault for all of it getting back to his dad. Boris Kavinsky wouldn’t have his son acting like. Like. God, fuck,  _ fuck.)  _

He released Proko’s throat and groaned when he came, tearing himself away right after so he didn’t have to touch the thing he’d created. 

Proko lounged casually against the Evo, like he hadn’t been nearly killed. He jerked himself off lazily and licked it off his fingers after, confidently obscene the way normal people  _ weren’t.  _ A walking, talking sexdoll, not a person at all. 

“I want a burger,” he said, rolling his shoulders, voice hoarse from the bruised vocal chords. “Swan, you buying?” 

And so it fucking continued. 

_ (My favorite forgery is Prokopenko,  _ he’ll lie later, conspiratorial with blood in his teeth. He has no  _ favorite forgery.  _ It’s all fucking empty. Pills to make him forget, pills to make him sleep, pills to make him die. Cars to race, cars to burn, cars to crash. Ghosts to keep him warm, ghosts to keep him cold, ghosts to remind him of his own failings. There is nothing but  _ this.  _ Not anymore.) 

**Author's Note:**

> follow me @ brophigenia.tumblr.com


End file.
